Prisoner-Paper Plane R.L POVRin POVPrisoner-Paper Plane R.L POV3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Today I met a boy my age at the place my father works.
Today I met a girl my age when I was wandering around the courtyard.
He looks like me.
She looks like me.
He was interesting to talk to.I received a paper plane,with words.A letter from him.
She was interesting to talk to.I gave her a paper plane,with words.A letter to her.
I'm coming back tomorrow.I hope he's there.
I'm coming back tomorrow.I hope she's there.
I have so many letters from him.I'm so glad I met him.He helps me forget about my illness...
I have so many letters from her.I'm so glad I met her.She helps me forget about my troubles...
I love him.
I love her.
Why does Father have to tear up the letters?
*picks up a piece he forgot to throw away*
Why does General have to tear up the letters?
*picks up a piece he forgot to throw away*
Why can't I see him anymore?I don't care!I'm still going to see him one
six steps to fixing youstep onesix steps to fixing you1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
cry. scream. bang your fists against the walls
that keep you locked inside.
kick your feet in the air. tell your sister she's stupid
and wrong and that you've never loved her.
cry. scream. apologize via him to you.
let your tears catch on your lashes
until you can no longer see anything but your own
demise. taste the bitterness left in
your mouth from your own bitching and rot in it.
break a mug. break two. kick
the pieces around the kitchen floor and cry some more.
break a plate. break a cup. break a bowl.
break a finger because nothing can take away this
sort of pain. you are empty and yet
you are filled with so much anger.
break a razor and paint pictures across your skin.
you are okay, you tell them.
you break three days later and you lie
in bed, unable to move.
start picking up the pieces. clean up the mess
you've made and he's left.
use windex to polish off the dirt and
Drawings on the Wall “She still seems to be retreating.”Drawings on the Wall3 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
“Do the doctors know what it means?”
“Creatures, and monster, it’s all nonsensical.”
“How long was she there for?”
The girl sat on her cot in silence.
Nearly every inch of her cell wall was covered in dark markings. Some overlapped each other. Beasts with horns, and jagged teeth marched across the white backdrop. Words speckled the drawings in terrifying ways;
“Father,” “Forgiveness,” “Sanctuary,” and “Eyes.”
Nothing about the drawings themselves seemed right. Hatched from a mad mind, the monsters towered over small figures. Some, rabbits, others, what
Awkward Underwater RelationsShe does a crab danceAwkward Underwater Relations2 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
while looking at those who swim
hoping that someone will understand
(no one usually does)
resistanceThe key to happiness is to always be fucking somethingresistance3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I am incapable
because I let it
go only to a certain point
arrhythmia is a tremor,
a Malthusian catastrophe
less solvent than snow.
The renegade who serves
my synapse sequences knows
this, and she develops fevers
to quell my dependence on
our forest of censored souls.
Mine is a passive immunity.
She makes tsetse flies,
fills them with blinks,
and releases them as impulses
that vaccinate my love against
the hurting. I'm not so deep
and I know nothing of suffering.
israeli want to know people who know godisrael3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but our instruments assure his exit-
quiet, loud, inevitable.
a roar in the streets, explosion, signs
or the satellite lying quietly across the ocean
the strange sky making martyrs of mute ships.
if we're meant a return, I believe,
there will come fog and we press ourselves
through voices like old forests until we're together.
but the spirit? what do we know about weightlessness
in a dimension polluted with gravity?
a beleaguered preacher says 'have you ever loved us'
and the audience erupts.
when god doesn't answer i look for you
in a liquor store that burned down last year
hidden tearsi lock away he painhidden tears3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
put away the fears
show you only smiles
not the hidden tears
a rapture backwardsleft only is an auditorium of empty chairsa rapture backwards4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
what comes next is sometimes the midwest doesn't exist
falling apart she agrees that perhaps it's only their language
slowly devolving into a flock of birds
the exchange of obsessions between objects in motion
every reference to the depth and volume of night
we do not know how to die beautifully
i stop believing the moment she realizes that
The KrakenThe Kraken2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Your life is a boat
Wandering the desolate seas.
But then nothing.
Until the heavens open.
The seas waves grow and grow
Hitting your mast,
What guides you
pulling you on your right path.
In the dark deep waters
Lurks a demon.
A demon so big
It will swallow you whole.
until your last dying breath.
Your worst enemy.
It will wrap its deadly tentacles around you.
Squeeze away your pleading scream.
It's your life's worst enemy.
Guide You HomeYou study the stars on my arms,Guide You Home3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
blended constellations set in negative,
as though they could guide you
from your grinding teeth and furrowed brows,
to the final release and the following calm.
You have not asked a question of me.
I, therefore, have no answers for you.
The wheeling sky is paused, silent, skin.
I cannot lead you home,
though you searched my astrology and I, as we
hovered over your body. I am not, I never was
truly set with sky, infinite, omniscient.
I cannot divine the questions caught
behind your open mouth, closed throat.
I am human, and fickle, and finite.
There are no answers in me.
Faithlike june tangled in tanquereyFaith4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
there is a chaos
sometimes it burns like gin
like holding these streets
with thought we've seen
as insurrect as nostalgia
as pieces of film you'll never develop
in your hands until they've all bled through
and you're left alone once more
there is information on these walls
that remind me of theories of string
how we're all just the idea of energy
that color is a symptom of light
and we've dreamed ourselves up so many times
there is no reality we haven't made love in
i've seen this city live and die by it
like a long exposure of nuclear winter
testing the premise of an afterlife
as photographs come and go like stars
that nobody ever writes poems about
begin again? dear dylan,
it's as hard as loving
it's as hard as loving yourself
as hard as having your heart broken
by ideas and by songs
it's as hard as being human and having no one to blame
and dreaming i
Chemdawgit was often violet and an argument for compressionChemdawg3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the cities redraft in a shale from which
all ideology and unchecked airport baggage pour
like oil through the layers which is how archaeologists tell time,
so I ask the psychonaut if his people know and he says
we embed poets to report on the wars, sometimes
a sediment constructed entirely of heroes will open
deep in a desert nobody named so i ask again and he says
and then the poets come home and try to write
but all we get are bills and soft plays about girls who die
on an airplane in a dream and when they wake
everything is actually blue except blue is actually violet,
and then another hit and the airplane drops 298 feet
so that by the time your soul catches up to you in a cold swell of water
you will have already become the photographs that remind your family of empty fields.
* * *
he thinks of words like retrovirus in a foil revival
by refined supercriticals until revolutions occur frequently
on each wall like pre-depression film
BlessingMy father strangled a birdBlessing4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
quietly, calm as gravity,
there in the garden. He bent
as if praying to the torqued wing
reddening his hand.
The night hunkered down on the screaming
wildness, on the kicking legs, the abrupt
and awe-filled silence. I watched him
watch the beak open, close,
like rippling lake water.
I loved him, the mercy
of his heavy knuckles, the kindly
He closed the beak like a priest
closes the eyes.
Under DreadThe winter, the whole winterUnder Dread3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is sitting on my head, nesting its fingers
in the little hairs over my ears.
Its friend, the great and unnamed doubt,
is leaning against my collarbone
in a most familiar fashion,
and I fall in and out of balance
I have a beauty waiting, warm, willing
on speed dial, but the phone--
where did I leave the phone again?
Beauty is as elusive as
the car keys, which, I swear,
were just in that pocket. I
had my hand on them. The whole winter
keeps coursing its little nails
up and down my neck and taking
all my breath away.
There was a dream I had that
I almost remember, almost remember better
than living yesterday, a dream
of gooey loss, a taffy sorrow that loomed,
loomed, loomed, you see? It was so real,
I just had it.
ElbowThe root expresses itself in many ways.Elbow3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
One of these is the way
that love becomes a method of living.
FaceI.Face2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
When you are born they will lay you on a magazine cover
and wonder why your face is not the face beneath you yet.
There is a woman set high
and the man beside you wonders why
your face is not the face above you.
Your mother wonders why her face is not the face
in front of her any longer.
She wonders when you will become her.
You try to leave your face behind you,
and wonder why you're running in place.
War SongWar Song3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I feel War as he was:
soothing bloodlust with cunning
of the tricksters, with the calm
of a savage. His heart is windless,
stirring only when a bird shrieks,
when the pitiless sun burns,
harsher than flint.
He is treacherous, travelling
underground, but oh,
lovely to see his labyrinths,
to reach the crown of his fort
and gaze below.
These bricks have known
a bloody sun.
I know him as he is now:
rotting in the high walls of Time,
soundless, stale, secreted away
by piping bats, who echo night
with hands of wings.
These grasses have known
a history gone.
I see him, as he will be:
overrun by dry wilderness
and yellowing jungle, and alone,
a bridge gently folding into a moat
of moss and water.
He will strew stones on the floor,
like snow in summer, lull trees
to sleep in front of the doors,
and close the gates.
These walls have known
a silence of drums.
in his fortress of wrecked stone,
lying above the hill of the gods:
bloodied, but unbowed.
1980--Last Year for Generation XThat year Hope had (made) her reservations:1980--Last Year for Generation X3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Reagan had just clutched office,
Orwell's '84 within sight,
Big Brother became bigger.
Oil was almost cheap;
They could load the eager houseboat,
Weekend on a semi-gemstone lake blaring
Van Halen, Queen, Zeplin . . .
Cell phones were for the spoiled haves,
Computers still infants, Internet (mostly) for a cunning military.
Yet they could leisure chat and use blonde post-it notes
Before the late First Amendment was enhanced (to better guard them)
Summer Olympics in malevolent Moscow
Would see no U.S. athletesFull coverage
On the (new) twenty-four hour talking head Cable News Network would tell all:
The U.S. held (in custody) her own "Olympics" for disillusioned athletes.
This is when Hope began to pack
Though Small Pox was executed (by the New World Health Organization)
Insulin now genetically engineered;
The U.S. refused grain to the sinister Soviet Union (something about Afghanistan)
Hope took flight by December, expatriated/exhausted.
AnnotationsIn free countries every word is inflamed with flowers.Annotations3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
There are always funerals to attend.
That Soviets sent atheists to die in space
only evidences the premise that an ache is sovereign in humans.
(Collectively, we've done all the drugs in the catalog,
worked to exile ourselves from the pull of suns
curving around rooms, bent like trees in the soft algae radiation)
Who entered who is irrelevant in the procession of things,
but important to nation building.
People often leave each other with the windows set like clocks
to bloom at the insurgence of a feral moon.
They call the silence an animal,
a painting of wooden boats lined across the strait.
And people used to cross there, I say,
smoking with strangers in a bright field.
This morning, another nuclear physicist died.
We begin to question the notion of accidents.
And then the gravity and harmonicas;
woman smiles down the wall.
When news comes from the past I remember you were beautiful.
Dried-up river: Tell me you've bee
For Helping MeFor Helping Me5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Even when I'm in
The darkest place
You'll always understand.
You've been there.
Sometimes you're already there
Waiting for me.
But whether you want
Me to save you
Or join you
I do not know.
I release my pain
Using the blade
And you snap.
I don't understand
What you what me to do.
I can't just sit there and suffer.
I've never been able to.
I try to release my pain
Using the elastic band
But you make me
Promise never to again.
Do you not understand
How hard it is
For me to stop?
But then I look
And I see
That you are the only person
Who is like me.
And I love you
For being you.
For helping me.